J'adore
by translucency for summertime
Summary: Commencer. I began to pursue her. I pursued her by the only way I knew how to, teasing and taunting until she would blush and push me away even more. Drabbles. TristanRory
1. Commencez

**J'adore**

* * *

I had been taking French lessons for five years before I met her. My father always told me that foreign language skills were essential in maintaining a successful business, and as always, the business was put at first priority in my life. _Pensez! Pensez!_ My elderly, top-of-the-line tutor had spoken firmly—not yelled, or even raised his voice—at me. And think I did. Often, in fact. Not the usual every day, fleeting decisions everyone is required to make to stay in existence. But long hours in the library, hidden back in a corner. 

It was in the library where I first noticed her, really noticed her. She had been sitting at a table catty corner from where I was—she hadn't seen me of course, otherwise she would have moved immediately—with her head bent over her Latin textbook, chestnut strands against newly printed-on paper. Her focused expression, her determination to succeed in a world where she wasn't meant to, made my stomach turn.

My stomach does not flutter or flit. _No girl is worth more than the business!_ My father repeatedly drilled into my head. So no girl was. And no girl made a difference to me—not Summer, not Paris, not Louise, not Madelyn. Mary Gilmore most certainly did not change that. She made me think, rethink my life. Mary—no, Rory—Gilmore changed **me** although she did not change that.

_Commencer._ I began to pursue her. I pursued her by the only way I knew how to, teasing and taunting until she would blush and push me away even more. That just gave me more reason to go on. "Leave me alone," she would say icily, but I knew that she was secretly begging and pleading by the scared look in her pretty blue eyes. I wouldn't. If I left her alone it would admit that she was something that I couldn't have. And Tristan Dugrey was never told no.

She could be summed up in one word: _fragile_. Oh, she pretended to be tough. She pretended her smarts and cold wit could protect her from all the men in the world that were out to get her. She pretended she wasn't hurt every time Paris, Louise, and Madelyn snubbed her. She pretended she wasn't interested in me. But the thing with pretending was that it just covered up the real world. Why else would Rory choose big, strong Dean as her boyfriend? It wasn't like he was smarter than me, more attractive than me. I could easily have been as good as, better of a protector than Dean. If she had only given me a chance.

If she had only said yes, instead of no.

* * *

1/8/08


	2. Finissez

**Finissez**

* * *

Military school was abysmal. My time spent there was a prison sentence that I reluctantly filled out. _You are a Dugrey._ My father's voice is a constant reminder of my childhood, my petty, unwanted childhood. _You will succeed._ I had no choice. All I wanted was to get out of that stupid world of cotillions and debutante balls filled with stupid rules that no one abided—no one was expected to abide, except me. Because I was a Dugrey and Dugreys succeeded.

_Dugreys are obedient._ Obedience to my father, obedience to Headmaster Charleston, obedience to the rules, to society in general was expected of me. The only problem was that I was not obedient. That was one of the reasons I was sentenced to the esteemed Charles de Gaulle Military Academy in South Dakota.

_Dugreys respect their elders._ When my father first added that to his ever-growing list of commandments, I was miffed. No, I was slightly confused. If anything, Dugreys were never miffed. I assumed that respecting my elders would tie into the obedience spiel. But when I brought that up to my father, I realized that doing so was in violation of both rules and quickly snapped my mouth shut—fully ready for and not surprised at all by the admonishment that followed.

_Dugreys are intelligent._ I was intelligent, you had to be to be accepted into Chilton—believe it or not acceptance wasn't based only on money—and though Louise and Madelyn each put up the appearance of dumb, pretty girls, they had to use something to think up those elaborate plans to catch my fellow Chilton men, though not restricted to only Chilton men. What my father referred to as unintelligence was my last year at Chilton. I became involved with less than respectable matters that I admit now were not intelligent. But those were my decisions, not my persona.

_Dugreys succeed._ That last rule was added after I had graduated from Charles de Gaulle. My father had clapped me on the back proudly, beaming ear from ear. _See?_ He whispered in my ear. _I knew you would make me proud—I knew you were a Dugrey all along._

But now as I stand behind the counter of a grubby New Haven gas station, I realize that I am not a Dugrey. I am not obedient, as the night manager reminds me every night when I begin my graveyard shift. I do not respect my elders—especially not my father, the very father that threw me out on the streets when I needed help the most. I doubt that anyone would consider me intelligent anymore. Not my landlord who has taken on a habit of pounding on my door at nine in the morning, after I had just crawled back into bed from the end of my work day, demanding money that he knew I didn't have. I most definitely did not succeed, as I chuckle to myself every morning when I think back on my father and his rules. My father and his ten commandments of sorts.

I am no longer a Dugrey. I'm nameless, I suppose. A nobody.

* * *

1/9/08 


	3. Voyez

**Voyez**

* * *

The first time I saw her again was a Saturday. She was with some blonde haired hotshot who was complaining about how he knew they should have taken his car, with a full tank of gas. "Logan," was the only word she uttered, but the name was laced with annoyance and exhaustion. Her eyes, her pretty blue eyes, were ringed by darken flesh and her neatly groomed hair was pulled back into a sloppy bun.

His face pulled into a frown. I was behind the counter still, a tabloid covering up my face, although doubted she would recognize me anymore. Brown stubble camouflaged my face, and unkempt hair masked my eyes. The poorly lit gas station hardly provided any clear sight against the vast cloak of night. _Noir._ I wondered what she was doing out so late—my eyes flickered over to my right, the clock turned two.

She was rustling through her handbag, clearly having trouble finding something. _Logan_ was standing in front of a row of fridges holding Pepsi products, a sneer on his face. "C'mon, babe," he called to her as he walked over, "Let's go." Babe was such a common term, and it was my turn to sneer.

"One second," she bit her lip, "I can't find my wallet."

"Just let me pay," Logan fiddled with a gold ring on his middle finger, sliding it on and off in boredom.

"No, I can pay," Rory insisted.

"Why you just can't carry a credit card like everyone else, I'll never understand," he muttered exasperatedly.

"You know why. I've told you a million times. When everyone else goes broke because of their college loans, I'll at least be at a clean zero," Rory pulled out a twenty with satisfaction. "Here you go!" She slapped the bill down on the grimy counter, and I slowly pulled down the magazine from hiding my face.

_Same old Mary,_ I thought with a sad satisfaction. Some things were always the same. She was always resilient and resourceful, as well as always dating total losers.

* * *

1/10/08 


	4. Regardez

* * *

I was floating in a stage of nothingness—a lackadaisical reverie. I would get up, brush my teeth, go to work, steal a donut from the Krispy Kreme case beside the counter, and so my day would progress. Routine boredom. Each day was the same, never changing, never faltering. And though my mind was blank, the teeniest subconscious of my brain kept wondering, kept wishing that I would see her again.

On minimum wage, I could hardly afford mediocre luxuries like gas, let alone the cars to fill it in, or even new socks. So I took to darning, which I realize now I would have been made fun of only four eyes ago when I was back at Chilton. Darning my socks in candlelight (courtesy of the ever-friendly landlord above me who turns off my electricity) and listening to Frank Sinatra over my battery-operated CD player. It was a typical night in the Tristan Dugrey house, as I had been promoted to daylight hours. Eight in the morning to three in the afternoon. What a delight.

I saved up my wages, typically making $234 a week, when working the maximum 40 hours, of course. But everything was so damn hard! Rent was $200 a month, high way robbery may I add, and then there was the general cost of living. Sure, I could go for a couple days without food and even use the restrooms at the nearest McDonalds. But it just didn't seem to work. And I still had to pay back the rent I hadn't paid for the past three months—totaling to a whopping $750. Yes, my crappy landlord tacked on interest.

But then one day it all fell into place. I began to search in the classifieds for a second job, when I found it. When I found her.

I became a barista for a local coffee shop. It was a chic, modern place equipped with art work and bluesy music. What I signed up for was a weekend shift at the actual coffee shop, and then during the week I'd work a kiosk on the Yale campus. Sounded good enough, and the pay was a little over minimum wage.

It was a Tuesday; Tuesday had always been a good day in my opinion. I had a green visor on, to shade my eyes from the wicked September sun. It was humid as hell, and I hadn't the slightest why anyone would want to buy hot coffee on such a hot, hot day. In fact, all morning long no one had even glanced my way. Until a certain little brunette stumbled my way.

She had a stack of library books in her arms, and a cell phone settled between her right shoulder and ear, teetering precariously over her shoulder. I noticed the bump in the sidewalk before she did I suppose, as she tripped over it and landed flat on her face. By the time I had kneeled down to pick up a book, she had gathered up the others and fled the scene after uttering three words.

"God damn it."

* * *

1/15/07


	5. Livre

* * *

The whole coffee ordeal in itself wasn't very exciting, I'll admit. The fact that I even saw Rory again was exhilarating, and it made me wonder about what was going on in her life. It wasn't like I became her stalker, no. I just had this thirst for her that I couldn't quite quench. So I called her grandmother.

The Emily Gilmore I had met many moons ago was uptight, close-lipped, and more things that I wouldn't dare say in her presence, let alone my mother's. I called her from a payphone, and one of their maids, naturally, answered. I asked to speak to "Ms. Emily Gilmore" and told her that I was a student at Chilton who wanted to ask her a few questions about her graduate. It apparently didn't sound too sketchy to either the maid or Mrs. Gilmore, as five minutes later I knew all I needed to about Rory.

She was currently in her last year at Yale, hence the run in. I asked her what her plans were the future and so on, which I already knew. They hadn't changed. She wanted to be an overseas correspondent. Her grandmother also added on the side that Rory was dating Logan Huntzberger, yes Mitchum's boy. I asked her why Rory hadn't graduated on time, why she was one year late. I could practically envision Emily stiffening as she told me that it was none of my business. Oh Mary, you are the ever-mysterious one.

I didn't see her for a week after that. One day, I was walking back to the parking lot where my friend's car was waiting for me after a particularly long shift. I was about to turn the corner when I heard Rory talking about her 'embarrassing fall in front of this guy a few days ago'.

"Don't worry, your spill wasn't that embarrassing," I cut in as I turned the corner. When she looked at me in confusion, I clarified who I was. "Coffee guy."

"Do you make a habit of eavesdropping on people's conversations? Because, you know, it's rude." Speaking of rude, Mary.

"I just wanted to let you know that you could stop avoiding me, I don't care that you fell down in front of me. I'm used to people throwing themselves at my feet," I couldn't help but let a bit of my old, cocky tone slip back into my speech. Perhaps then she would figure out who I was. "Oh, and here's that book you left."

Rory took the book sharply. "I had to pay a fine for that, you know. Couldn't you have dropped it off at the library? That's a $1.50 I'll never see again."

"You're very welcome, Miss Lorelei Gilmore," I said, before leaving her and her friend and jumping into the passenger seat of the black Volvo.

* * *

1/20/08 


End file.
